


Detail

by kronette



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Between Seasons/Series, Gen, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-05
Updated: 2012-12-05
Packaged: 2017-11-20 14:23:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/586334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kronette/pseuds/kronette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean washes the Impala. A follow-up story about the events in the first season episode "Salvation."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Detail

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted 29 April 2006 @ 10:53 pm.

Dean stands from the squatting position he’d been in for fifteen minutes, his thighs burning. He rests one hand on the trunk of the Impala while rubbing his thigh with the other. Not bad for a morning’s work; the front of the car had been debugged earlier, and now with all four tires and tire wells done, he can concentrate on the rest of the car. His eyes flick over the assembled tools, noting he should change the water before beginning on the body.

He drags the bucket and hose to the sidewalk, empties the water onto the grass, and fills the bucket again, adding in the appropriate amount of _Pinnacle Bodywork Shampoo_. Satisfied the mix is right, he leaves the bucket and sends a fine spray of water over the car, making sure to wet it thoroughly before closing the nozzle on the hose.

He dips the sheepskin wash mitt into the water, squeezes some of it out, and methodically cleans the car from top to bottom, occasionally rinsing when it looks as though the oil is starting to set. He wipes at his brow when sweat stings his eyes, but doesn’t pause in the rhythmic rub/rinse pattern he’s developed.

The trees dapple sunlight over the car, but even with the constantly moving shadows, he knows the difference between light and dirt. He spends extra time on the moldings and trim, taking care with the chrome. His arms ache as he removes the nozzle from the hose and lets the water flow freely from the hood to the trunk, letting gravity pull the water toward the back end of the car.

Satisfied the soap is removed, he returns the nozzle to the end and closes off the flow of water, too preoccupied to bother to turn it off at the source. He grabs the chamois and begins drying the car, starting at the top, drawing the chamois across the surface in a straight line. Once most of the water is removed, he replaces the chamois with a terry towel to blot up the remaining droplets.

He spends as much time, as much concentration, on waxing as he had washing, making sure to cover the entire paint surface while avoiding the chrome.

Breathing heavily now from the exertion, he surveys his handiwork, satisfied the outside is as good as it can get. He leaves the towels to dry in the sun, then pulls out the interior detailing kit and begins work on the inside of the car. Thorough dusting with a microfiber cloth, q-tips and a brush to get the remaining dirt and dust from the vents. Oil carefully applied to the dashboard, then he shifts and struggles with the leather conditioner. It’s hot inside the car, and he has to back out into the street to get deep between the seats. The back seat is harder, as he can’t fold the seat back into the trunk, but he does his best. A small brush sweeps the carelessly tracked gravel back out of the car. The dome light is removed and cleaned, the glove box is sorted, under the seats is disgusting, but he cleans there with no more than a slight frown. He dusts the dead bugs from the back windshield, taking care that they don’t fall on the newly oiled seats. The trunk – he leaves the trunk, because if he got in there, then he’d want to get into the false bottom, and too many questions would come up.

A shadow falls across him and he glances up into Sam’s worried face.

“What?” he grumbles as he oils the creaking hinges of the doors.

“You don’t have to do this, Dean,” Sam murmurs.

“Do what; oil the hinges? That damn squeak’s been driving me crazy for…” he doesn’t finish the barb; can’t find it in himself to even try. His voice drops to a whisper, “I’m just oiling the hinges.”

Sam squats next to him, his presence distracting and unwelcome. “Dean, you need to let this go.”

Dean’s hands tremble, and he almost drops the little can. “Shit,” he barks, twisting on his feet to glare at his brother. “Leave it, Sam.”

“Dean…”

“I said _leave it,_ ” he snarls, standing and shoving his brother aside, jerky movements of his limbs as he puts the detailing kits back in the car.

“This won’t bring him back,” he hears, softly drifting on the wind, and he freezes.

“It’s not supposed to,” he replies, voice gruff and barely holding it together. “I need to do this, Sammy. Please.”

He feels Sam behind him, then his presence fades, and Dean relaxes. He still has to put everything away, coil the hose back up, and return the bucket from the neighbor he’d borrowed it from. With everything done, when the Impala is gleaming in the fading sun, then Dean allows a small, sad smile.

Dad would have nodded his approval at the care Dean had shown. If Dad were there. If Dad hadn’t…

Dean sinks to the grass, his legs unable to support him. He stares at the car as the sun sets, as night falls, as the moon comes out and shines across her glossy surface.

Tomorrow, he thinks. Tomorrow he’ll tackle the engine. Make sure she really hums. Dad’ll be proud.

The End


End file.
